


Perfect

by Nakahara



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: BBC Sherlock and John as seen in TAB, Case Fic, Complicated Relationships, Historical References, John is a very jealous guy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock is finally a good man but not in the way John has envisioned this, Sherlock´s mysterious past, famous French literary figure makes a cameo, some references to a dubious relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 16:51:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9081181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakahara/pseuds/Nakahara
Summary: Caught in the midst of the case, Sherlock and John encounter another mystery. And although they find themselves in the foreign country which seems to be the most unlikely place where they can encounter their past demons, it turns out Sherlock´s past is tightly intertwined with the new, ghastly crime discovered in the quiet, inconspicuous street of the little French town... and John Watson is not too happy about it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrshouse](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mrshouse).



My readers often associate my presence at the side of great Sherlock Holmes with London and its misty streets. Our daily life and solving of the subtle problems of our numerous clients seems unthinkable without the presence of the friendly domestic hearth at 221B Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson fussing downstairs or little street Apaches known as Baker Street Irregulars hollering under our windows. People would generally not imagine us, or at least not me, in such surroundings as Southern France.

Yet here we were.

Elegant, single-story building of Gare de Montpellier was shrouded in smoky vapours emitted from lazily moving steam locomotives. It was a sleepy Saturday evening and the wan daylight of the late October tinted everything with shades of blue and grey. This probably discouraged people from travelling. For such a populous city, only a few villagers and a handful of well-dressed bourgeois loitered on the open platforms. 

Holding a bag full of thin wooden planks I patiently waited near the place where the doors to the first-class carriage should appear any minute. But from time to time, my eyes were inadvertently ranging over the platform, keenly observing the passengers standing to my left.

Accompanied by Inspecteur Principal Ganimard, Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective of our age tensely awaited the arrival of the upcoming train there. He was Holmes for all of the world and Sherlock for me and me alone. Also, he became my lover as of late and kept this status for ten months and seventeen days for now. 

I forgot all about my mission for a while and let my glance run over him hungrily.

His profile, sharper and more defined in the twilight, gave him his usual self-possessed and unemotional look. Yet the wild gleam in his pale eyes betrayed the hunting instinct of the bloodhound pulsing powerfully through his body. Even his garments reflected his change into a hunter chasing a game now, his favourite frock-coat and top-hat being replaced by a deerstalker cap and the Ulster coat. Observing him in his element, I almost became flustered, for something in his aggressive vigour made him irresistible in my eyes. He looked like Mars personified.

The sudden hoot startled me from further reverie. 

The train to Perpignan emerged in a distance at last. It swiftly reached the station and with a heavy clangour of its machinery stopped next to the platform occupied by our scattered company.

I hurried up and quickly climbed aboard the first-class carriage through the door placed at one end of it, being dimply aware of Sherlock and Ganimard entering the carriage through the opposite end. 

No one else boarded the first class. The train was a bit delayed and so after a little while a sharp sound of conductor's whistle rang outside and with that we were on the move again. 

A narrow cave-like corridor running along the individual compartments opened in front of me, silent and peaceful as the Diogenes Club boudoir. All passengers apparently spent their time properly seated on their places or were off to the restaurant carriage. This state of things didn't bother me the least, in fact, these circumstances played right into my hand. I saw how the door of the corridor at the other end of the carriage opened slowly and I glimpsed Sherlock's tall, stately figure behind them, lurking in the small vestibule there. As his fiery eyes met mine through the distance, I mutely signalled him that I'm ready. Then I sprang right into action.

Clutching the handles of my bag tightly, I shuffled forward and carefully peeked inside the compartment placed as the first in the row. 

Two elderly ladies dressed in lacy black robes and sporting elaborate coiffures were busy nodding off inside, their gently snoring mouths being opened and closed almost in unison. Unwilling to be tricked, I checked their faces with utmost scrutiny, but they were definitely not my targets. I looked up at Sherlock again, shook my head dismissively and moved on.

The second compartment was quite rambunctious as I approached it. A discreet look into its interior showed me two respectable matrons and the white moustached man caught in a heated debate, laughing five-year old girl engaged in a play with a basket which contained meowing black kitten and the burly baby-boy sitting on the knees of one of the women. The baby emitted the loud shrieks, evidently competing against the adults in this razzle-dazzle tournament. The party was so obviously Italian that I didn't even stop and continued in my course to the third compartment.

Here I stopped and stiffened in surprise. I swiftly raised my right hand, giving a warning to Sherlock who slowly approached me from the other side.

The compartment housed the sole occupant this time. He was a fairly young man, lavishly dressed in an expensive tuxedo and an elegant pearl-grey overcoat and he was sporting a tall top-hat. His lively black eyes intensely scanned the newspaper spread out in front of him as a shield. The sensitive nostrils and neat, but underdeveloped muffs twitched in some triumphant gaiety and the full lips were stretched into a self-satisfied smile. Under his collar, a decorative pin held his bow-tie in place. Beautiful yellow chrysanthemum flower was pushed into the lapel buttonhole of his tuxedo and worn as a luxurious boutonnière, flashing at me like a small sun with every movement of its owner. 

There was no doubt – it was him. A decorative pin and a yellow chrysanthemum were a dead giveaway. He looked exactly like last night, during our encounter at Gare du Nord in Paris. He obviously had no time to change into a travelling outfit in between. I carefully examined his figure from head to toe and spotted a portable bag almost immediately. It was sitting next to his polished patent-leather boots on the floor.

I looked at Sherlock sharply and making sure that I have his full attention, I nodded decidedly. His slanted eyes narrowed into blazing slits and he stopped in his tracks, arresting the impatient movement of Ganimard with the imperial gesture of his arm. 

With the ground prepared for my act that way, I placed myself in front of the compartment door, knocked on it lightly and entered the small cell right after.

“Excuse me, monsieur.” I tipped my hat in greeting and continued in a gruff tone to conceal my English accent: “Would you mind if I join you? I never expected the first class to be so full today and it seems your compartment is the only one with a bit of place left in it.”

The man stared at me searchingly for awhile. It was a decisive moment. If he would recognise me now, our plan would go awry in a second and I would be forced to improvise… I stood motionless, with a benign expression on my face, but my grip on the bag handles tightened a bit in barely concealed tension. I was like a taut spring, prepared to shoot up at any moment now.

But this was not necessary, thank God. Because the man shrugged his shoulders with disinterest and continued reading Le Figaro, the slightest hint of contempt and malice apparent in the wavy line of his lips. 

Shaving my moustache off for Sherlock's case was a hard thing to do, but it worked very well, indeed. Our target dismissed me as a harmless nobody on sight and didn't even suspect who I really am.

“Thank you, monsieur.” I murmured politely and resumed a seat opposite him, placing my bag softly on the floor.

The next minute passed in silence. I took my hat off and fanned myself with it, yawning in boredom and blinking sleepily against the faint light coming from outside. After that, I turned back towards my travelling companion and fixed my glance on the heavily illustrated front page of Le Figaro.

“Oh!” I ejaculated. 

The cheeky-looking youth, disturbed from reading by my shout, frowned at me in displeasure.

“My deepest apologies, monsieur,” I bowed my head in excessively polite manner. “Your newspaper caught my eye… I see that this renowned British detective, Sherlock Holmes, was appointed by police to investigate those daring thefts committed in the Louvre… isn't that exciting?”

“Is it?” The young man smiled in haughty amusement. “Personally I do not care for such Saxon horse-face.”

“A true patriot, huh?” I beckoned him with my hat in mock salute. “But the Saxon in question is very useful to France nowadays, isn't he? He works hard to recover some of its most beautiful national treasures, after all. Moreover, wouldn't it be fabulous if that blackguard Arsène Lupin was finally caught and put under the lock? The man gets on my nerves in the worst way possible, to be honest.”

The youth laughed, seized by such mirth that his molars were showing. 

“You intrigue me.” He announced after that and produced a cigarette out of his pocket, his playful long fingers twirling it around. “Well, don't you think the thief is very happy now that they consider him a subject worthy of the attention of the celebrated English detective? Just consider what pleasure it would be for him to best the rival of these qualities!”

“Assuming he will win, of course.”

The cheeky youngster smirked: “That's true, but I will bet on our man still, rather than on Le Rosbif. Besides, why side with that stuck up Brit instead of the man of your own land? It's France against England now… Trafalgar will be avenged at last…”

“But, monsieur!” I protested, truly outraged by these claims.

The young man grinned lazily and stuck the cigarette into the corner of his mouth. “No offence intended, my friend… I was just expressing my views on the matter. Don't mind me, I meant well. Do you have some fire, by the way?”

“Sorry, I don't smoke.” I responded with somewhat reserved air. 

In that moment a deep, rumbling voice resounded near us: “But I could gladly serve you in that regard, Monsieur Lupin.”

The head of my companion whipped round with surprising speed... and met with the imposing sight of Sherlock Holmes who inaudibly opened the compartment door in between and was now standing in front of it with his hands crossed over his chest.

I won't ever forget the face our would-be Napoleon made when he spotted him. The bouts of mirth are still tickling me in my belly when I remember how his eyes bulged out of their sockets as if ready to pop off and to land on the floor, how his jaw slackened and a cigarette fell from his mouth into his lap.... but as it turned up, the rascal still had some surprises in store for us. Because even in the midst of the mind-numbing scare – which I'm sure was genuine – he had a presence of mind to stretch his left hand forward abruptly.

Suddenly, the brakes of the train screeched so violently that a rain of fiery sparks blew out of them and flew by our window like the meteoric shower. In the next second the train stopped with such a sharp loss of momentum that I was practically ejected out of my seat and ended as the hodgepodge of twitching legs and arms somewhere on the ground. In the corridor outside, a loud thud and a string of juicy French curses were audible, a tell-tale sign that Inspecteur Ganimard fared no better than me out there. Sherlock too staggered dangerously and saved himself from falling only by grasping the door-leaf by both hands. 

At this my dastardly travelling companion, now pale as the candle wax, darted up from his seat and wildly hit Sherlock to the chest, forcing him to let go of the door and to abandon his position for a while. He then slammed the door shut, locking it in haste and threateningly brandished a revolver out of his overcoat with the nimbleness of a viper.

“Don't move!” He screamed at me, his eyes dark and wide and bit into his lower lip as he blindly fumbled for the window handle. The door jolted under a heavy blow as the transparent panes slid down. 

“Don't move.” He growled at me again as he collected his bag and retreated to the open window. After that he turned his back on me and the moment the compartment door burst open, he jumped out on the rails running parallel to ours, recklessly disregarding his own safety.

I was up on my feet in a second, pulling my own gun out of my pocket in an instant. Through the open window, I observed how the young rascal leapt through the rocky terrain and tufts of dry grass like a spring lamb, fleeing towards the grey buildings of the nearby homestead which was visible behind the shroud of olive-trees. I took a careful aim... but in that moment a Spanish freight train swished by, covering the entire area in front of me, even the very sky, with rattling brown metal.

I cursed and heard my sentiments being echoed in off-colour French by Inspecteur Ganimard who peeked into the coupé from the corridor.

“Wretched!” I murmured helplessly, sinking back into my seat and I stared at the unending line of cattle wagons with a growing sense of disappointment. “I can't believe he escaped like that, God damn it all to hell!”

After the torturous interval that felt like eternity the last wagon finally rumbled by, confirming my suspicion. Behind the window, only the peaceful rustic country stretched to its mountainous background. The fugitive, still at large, was nowhere in sight.

Sherlock, who quickly collected himself, stepped up to the window and looked out inquiringly. An ominous buzz of angry voices droned around us, coming out of neighbouring compartments and the heavy steps of the train crew already resounded in the vicinity, but he didn't let himself to be disturbed by any of those facts and resumed the place opposite me, cavalierly reclining against the backrest. 

“Don't worry, he won't get very far.” He assured me, entirely unconcerned. “I know the place quite well. Béziers is not Paris. He will stand out like a flaming torch in his Parisian outfit here. Besides, he has no boltholes in this town. We'll have him tomorrow, I'll bet.”

“That might be the truth... still, it pisses me off he got away when I almost had his collar felt.” I grumbled contritely. “How did he manage that, by the way? It probably wasn't a coincidence the train stopped at the moment most suitable for him, was it?”

“No, it definitely wasn't.” Sherlock responded with merriment sparkling in his pale eyes and inserted his long fingers into the gap between the seat and the window-wall, carefully grasping for some elusive object. In the next second he pulled out one end of the copper wire with little noose on it, something akin to snapped up shoe-string hanging from it limply.

“He had this thing fastened to the wrist of his left hand. The other end was attached to the emergency-brake up here.” He explained, evidently in good humour. “It was an elegant and admirably simple trick, I must admit... too bad all this effort was to no avail eventually.”

Sherlock allowed the wire to fall back to its place and shook his head.

“Trafalgar will be avenged at last?” He chuckled. “What an idiot!”

And his reticence dissolved into a loud, hearty laugh which was so contagious that I joined right in and guffawed until my hips were aching with cramps.

Cough, cough!

Inspecteur Ganimard who just ordered the train crew away wiped his forehead with the white handkerchief and looked at us in reproach.

“Sorry to interrupt you, messieurs,” he said stiffly, not able to hide the dissatisfaction resounding in his voice. “But shouldn't we give chase to the criminal? I know he is out of his element here in this place, but he is an old fox. Who knows what other felony he will perpetrate come the morning...”

Sherlock looked at him slyly and lifted one shoulder in a gesture of mock-helplessness.

“That's entirely up to you now, monsieur le Inspecteur,” he announced, his tone self-satisfied and firm. “As you remember, it was not my assignment to arrest the man but to restore the objects stolen from the Louvre. And this assignment is now finished.”

“Finished? How?” Ganimard dropped his hand and clenched the handkerchief in his fist in visible anger. “Lupin is still at large together with his booty!”

Sherlock just smiled inscrutably – he never could resist those theatrical touches when dealing with the members of the police force – and stretching out his long leg, he pushed the bag from its place under my seat towards the Inspecteur with the sole of his boot.

Ganimard scowled down on it and irritably grabbed it away. He impatiently threw the thing open and mumbling some unflattering things under his nose, he cast a glance inside.

And suddenly... it was as if a Gorgon cast her terrifying glance at him in turn. He blanched, all the way up to his lips and grew absolutely still and rigid as if he was transformed into the statue in this very moment. 

“Vatican Cameos!” He breathed out in awe. “They are here!”

His knees gave way after that and he sunk limply onto the seat next to mine. This enabled me to observe that magnificent set of engraved gems, adorned with mythological scenes from late Antique, from my vantage point. Their delicate beauty was striking and I was not the least surprised that Ganimard's hand shook feverishly when he caressed them with a careful touch of a miser.

The train moved slowly in between, a train crew trying to move the train from its position among fields and olive groves into the more savoury area of Gare de Béziers. 

During the time in which Sherlock was stuffing his short pipe with tobacco, Ganimard recovered and was now gushing with praise and compliments in a true Gallic fashion.

“Monsieur Holmes, you did a great service to the people of France today! Words can't convey the gratitude our country bestows at you feet just now! Your immense talent....”

“Wait, wait, stop it!” Sherlock interrupted him right away. “Your gratitude should only belong to Doctor Watson. It was he who managed to replace Lupin's bag during that mayhem... I contributed very little to that.”

His silver eyes met mine and a shadow of a smile shivered on his lips when he said: “It was this fearless soldier who saved these treasures for your country. Give praise where it is due.”

Ganimard immediately turned his attention to me, but I barely registered a word coming out of his mouth as blood rushed to my face and my chest swelled with warm pleasure and delight. Lupin who? I would gladly cross swords with ten thousand of thieves like him to hear the same little speech being repeated by Sherlock...

And as it came out, there was more to it.

When we stopped by an unassuming building of Gare de Béziers and Inspecteur Ganimard sprang out of the carriage, guarding the valuable bag like a bulldog, he hurried to the nearest police station right away. Before his departure, he explained that he will try to apply some measures aimed at capturing Lupin there, as soon as possible. 

I intended to follow him to the platform, only in a bit more dignified and composed a manner. But in that moment a slender, yet a deceptively strong arm sneaked around my waist, holding me in place and a rough sensuous voice exhaled into my ear: “You are so alluring without that moustache of yours... it's very hard to look at you and abstain from touching you.”

And a pale, cultured hand adorned with long fingers palmed me through my trousers and fondled me in the darkness of a small carriage vestibule with abandon.

The parts I always meant to keep private when in public (with varying success) twitched enthusiastically. I gasped, turned around and tried to repay the torturous treatment to Sherlock, but the detective slithered by me like an eel and laughing silently, he saved himself by jumping out to an empty platform.

“Later, my dear Watson,” he promised, mischievous sparkles dancing in his eyes.

“Oh, you cunning Devil,” I growled and swiftly joined him outside, seized equally by thrill and by frustration. 

We found ourselves under the saddle-roof of a large, open station canopy with one edge affixed to the wall of a station building. Sherlock lit his pipe and gently inhaling the smoke, he slowly walked towards the friendly looking premises, surveying the place in his careful, but unobtrusive way. I followed suit, furtively looking around me. However, the place was positively depopulated. Only a train dispatcher yawned in ennui beside the locomotive and some wild-haired artsy type was busy unloading his luggage out of the second class carriage at the other end of the platform.

“You said earlier you know the place quite well?” I inquired. “Then lead me. We must find some lodgings for the night, the sooner the better. Also, the more private and isolated it would be, the more suitable would I find it.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and threw a flirtatious side-glance at me.

“Is that so?” He asked, sporting a provocative grin in the corner of his mouth: “And what then?”

I sidled up to him and when my nose was almost touching the side of his jaw, I growled in a low voice: “I won't disclose my secrets but... oh, the things I would do to you...”

Sherlock stared down on me, quite intrigued. His eyes narrowed into slits and his full red lips opened enticingly...

“Guillaume!” A loud voice hollered behind our backs unexpectedly.

And there went my amorous efforts. Sherlock's head snapped up and he aimed a sharp, threatening gaze in the direction the noise just came from.

Incensed about the fact that these pleasant flirtations met such an end, I spun around at once and pierced the shouting madman with a death-glare. Not that it had any effect on him. The man – it was the same artsy type I noticed earlier – abandoned his valise on the nearby bench and surged at us like raging flood, still screeching cheerfully: “Guillaume!”

I took a step forward and opened my mouth to inform the imbecile that none of us has the honour to be called by that name, but he swished past me so quickly he almost knocked me down. He went straight to Sherlock and grabbed both of his shoulders into his bear-like paws.

“Guillaume!” He yelled with delight. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes!”

And before I could react in any way, he kissed Sherlock on one cheek, then on another and finally smacked the biggest of his kisses right at Sherlock's lips.

I felt as if somebody threw a pitcher full of ice-cold water right into my face. I never expected that somebody could touch Sherlock like that in my presence and I was stunned by the realisation that this person just performed the unimaginable. 

Still, I trusted Sherlock to reject this nuisance right away in his cold and haughty manner. I keenly observed his eyes peering intently at the man from the shadow cast by the visor of the deerstalker. I saw them widen and darken – in outrage, I supposed – and as his lips opened, my stomach shivered in joyful anticipation of a harsh, cutting speech…

“Marcel…” Sherlock whispered, visibly shaken. “Marcel Vernet!”

And moving stiffly as if he just recovered from a nasty shock, he gently put his hands on the elbows of the other man, inclining as if to kiss him…

In that moment a cetacean-shaped green-eyed monster burst from beneath the surface of my consciousness and her humongous fins tore every rational thought in my head to shreds.

I reached the pair in but the two swift long steps and placed my hand firmly on the shoulder of the Frenchman.

My tactic was successful. Before the kiss could reach his mouth, the man turned his head to me in surprise, eyeing me with bewilderment as if he only noticed me right now.

“Nice to meet you, monsieur.” I managed to conjure the wide smile somehow, although my teeth were almost bursting under strain, they were set that hard. “I see that you already know Mr. Holmes. Let me introduce myself then. Doctor John H. Watson, at your service.”

The man blinked at me at first, uncomprehending, while Sherlock abruptly dropped his hands to his waist and took a step back. He hummed and hawed in an uncharacteristic manner, more flustered than I ever saw him.

“Uh, yes… this… let me introduce you, Marcel. This is my loyal companion of many years, Doctor John Watson. And Watson, this gentleman is monsieur Marcel Vernet, my distant relative.”

At this the man's face brightened and his blank stare transformed into an impish, cheerful expression. He stretched his hand out to me in his customary merry and carefree attitude and he added in English laden with heavy French accent: “Cousin seven times removed, so to say. Nice to meet you, sir.”

I'm afraid I was a bit impolite there. I overlooked that outstretched hand completely and gaped at Sherlock in stark disbelief.

“A relative? You have relatives here?”

And I was once again stuck with the feeling that Sherlock behaves very strangely all of a sudden. He never responded to my question, he just frowned at me, weirdly distracted.

The new-found French cousin, on the other hand, laughed uproariously.

“Secretive as always, isn't he, our dear Guillaume? He grew up here in Béziers, he never told you that?”

With my mouth open in surprise, I shook my head weakly. Sherlock mentioned to me, once, that his grandmother was related to some French painter, but this, this was something entirely new to me. It suddenly occurred to me how little I actually know about Sherlock and his past. It was a very humiliating realisation. To be aware that he allowed me to share his body, but he never felt confident enough, never trusted me enough, to share his innermost thoughts with me…

The Frenchman, however, was no longer interested about me or my inner turmoil. He draped himself over Sherlock's stiff form and proclaimed delightedly: “It is so incredible to have you here after all those years, Guillaume! Come, we must drink on this tonight!”

I started, my fingers clinched painfully into the folds of my coat. This has to be a joke, right? 

Sherlock looked to be taken aback by this suggestion too and he had a decency to protest: “To be honest, I'm a bit tired right now and I'm sure Doctor Watson is in a similar state. We were just going to find some hotel and to take lodgings there for a night…”

“What? A hotel?” Vernet recoiled in horror and disgust. “You can't mean that! Of course you will stay in my place tonight and Doctor Watson is invited too! I insist!”

No! This can't be happening! No!

“Besides,” a sly grin appeared on Vernet's face, “I have a big surprise for you. Wait until you see – you won't believe the coincidence! So shall we?”

No! No! No!

Sherlock looked at me helplessly like a deer caught in a snare of the cunning poacher and he lifted his shoulders in a gesture of resignation. He then turned to the exit from the platform, being led along by Vernet who called nonchalantly over his shoulder: “My valise is there on the bench, Doctor Watson! Merci beaucoup!”

Seething in rage, I grabbed two brutally heavy coffers into my hands and followed the dastardly pair out of the station. Their heads were already together and they were chattering in that peculiar Occitan dialect which was utterly incomprehensible to me. They effectively cut me off from joining the conversation that way. Beasts!

As we left the station, we were greeted by the sight of the hansom cabs nicely lined-up next to the entrance to the building. Mumbling swearwords under my breath I headed off in their direction… then abruptly stopped in my tracks when a loud whistle rang behind my back.

I turned around and saw Vernet waving furiously at me. Some shabby hay-wain stood by his side, being tended to by a placid-looking peasant. Sherlock already climbed on top of it, trying to find a comfortable position among the mess loaded on the wagon. Obviously, this was our means of transportation today.

It was getting better and better. Fuming harshly, I dragged myself and the coffers over, flung them on the wagon-floor and boarded the wain. Then I sat next to the ladder lining the sidewall of the wagon, praying for this hell to be over soon.

The driver assumed his perch after that, spurred the horse on and we were off to the town, moving through the streets in a snail's pace.

At least Béziers was nice to look at. It was nothing like London or Paris, of course, but after the constant jostle and jumble and deafening din of both metropolises the atmosphere of this small town felt very refreshing and peaceful for a change. On our short tour through the city, we passed around charming Languedocien houses coated with white or ochre plaster. Some had their facades decorated, others possessed the simple beauty typical for the architecture of Southern France, but all had their roofs covered with reddish roof tiles weathered by the glaring sunlight during long local summers. From time to time, a strange apparition materialised over those roofs, a walled citadel of sorts, some large mass of a palace or a cathedral assumed rather than actually visible on top of it.

The only thing preventing me from enjoying the lovely view was the mouth of our companion, Vernet. It never closed during our journey and the ceaseless Guillaume-this and Guillaume-that started to wear on me, very quickly.

“Why do you call Holmes “Guillaume”?” I once interrupted him, remembering how he addressed Sherlock by some long form of English name when we met earlier this evening.

“Because William is his name, isn't it?” He replied, shrugging his shoulders.

“Isn't it, indeed?” I echoed, barely masking the sarcasm dripping from my voice.

“Well, Guillaume's grand-mère was a great admirer of Guillaume d'Orange called Fièrebras, Count of Toulouse, that famous Aquitanian knight who fought Saracens and ogres in the vicinity and was sainted for it. She had this grand tome full of Chansons de Geste in her library and La Chanson de Guillaume happened to be her most favourite one. She arranged her second grandson to be named after him.”

“But Holmes has an older brother… why didn't she adorn that one with such a name?”

“She did, in fact. Mycroft's first name is Vivien – after La Chevalerie Vivien and Aliscans respectively.”

Vivien Mycroft Holmes! Now, that's some news! Could it get any crazier by the minute?

I pierced Sherlock with an accusing glance. It was incredible that a third party possessed such wealth of information on his family and I was left entirely in the dark in that regard. Cousin or not, this was quite unfair to me!

Still, Sherlock didn't pay any attention to either me or his relative. He sat huddled there in the corner, slim thighs pushed against his chest, wiry arms enfolding his long shanks and he stared right ahead, frowning, lost deep in thought.

The hay-wain stopped in front of some house at last.

“Oh, finally!” exclaimed Vernet and hopped down from the wagon like an unruly goat-kid. “We will wait here for a while, while Pierre takes my luggage to my place. Follow me, gentlemen!”

We descended our unceremonious transport and dusted our garments off, eyeing our destination warily. 

The house was on the more decorative side. It was a two storey building with the façade covered by elegant bossage, its horizontally banded rustication giving it the air of a noble abode. Quoins with long and short strips adorned both corners of the façade wall. One corbelled cornice separated the ground storey from the first floor, another, pronounced one, lined the edge of the roof. The roof was of the mansard type, with three gilded dormers glistening in the dark. Stone chambranles bordered four windows placed on the first floor, the top of each window sporting its own, neatly carved, cornice and a suprafenestra in the shape of Satyr's head. The ground floor was a bit simpler, showing us the dark door overhung with dropped keystone to our right – it probably lead to the courtyard – and the store front which monopolised the rest of the façade.

High above our heads, the light was burning brightly behind the heavy curtains in all four heavily decorated windows. It conjured the image of the luxurious saloon illuminated by the friendly hearth-fire in our mind's eye. The store front seemed to be inviting too, hiding the amiable little bistro behind its glass and wooden panels.

Impulsive as usual, Vernet didn't even ask and burst right in. We exchanged glances at that moment, both of our faces mirroring the disappointment and regret about what-could-have-been… but it was not suitable to discuss these things in public, in the middle of the street. So we followed Vernet to the bistro docilely.

As we entered, we found that little place to be empty. Vernet stood by the counter and rang at the service impatiently, but it took quite a while till the young waitress appeared from the adjoining room. She was that healthy, rustic type with endearingly round face, reddish cheeks and the blonde hair worn in a loose bun. She stared at us in somewhat breathless manner, her eyes dark and wide and she wiped her soot-covered hands into the towel convulsively. Sherlock's strange attire probably did that to her. You certainly don't see many people wearing a deerstalker and an Ulster coat in the vicinity of Béziers.

“Pan golçat, please,” ordered Vernet and chose the wine to go with that dish. We sat to the table by the window and as Vernet poured the dark red liquid into three glasses, the girl swiftly cubed the fresh baguette on the cutting board. Sherlock observed her distractedly for a while, then pressed his lips together in sudden determination and turned to his cousin.

“So, Marcel… what is this surprise you have planned for me to see?”

Vernet took a hefty gulp from the wine, cackled and started babbling something about big coincidences again, refusing to give up his secret. But he forgot in whose company he sits now.

“Please, tell me,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “are we waiting here for Professor Julian Authié? Is he the one you were speaking about?”

Vernet opened his mouth in shock and threw his hands up in such a grand gesture that a waitress who carried us the food flinched and a serving tray loaded with bread and olive oil practically fell on the table between us. It didn't flip over, thank God, but it was a close call.

“Dieu!” The Frenchman screamed in outrage. “Is there something you cannot deduce before it actually happens? There goes the surprise! And I believed you will be so astonished to meet your old mentor again! What a pity! How do you cope with this all the time, Doctor Watson?”

“With a great deal of frustration.” I smiled and I rubbed the shaved skin under my nose sheepishly.

And that was our last peaceful moment that night. 

Because in the next second, the door to the bistro flew open and a heavy-set elderly woman staggered in, her hand pressed tightly to her heaving breasts. 

“Help! Help! Rosalie!” She moaned in the pitifully broken voice. “Give me some water, Rosalie! Monsieur Arnaud… up there… in his drawing room….”

And she collapsed on the spot.

We collectively jumped from our seats and managed to catch her before her head hit the floor-tiles. We settled her into Vernet's seat and I checked her vitals quickly while Vernet was fanning her with the newspaper he grabbed from the nearby stand. Fortunately, she recovered in a minute and blinked at us in confusion, but she was still unable to emit a word and groaned plaintively until we handed her a glass of cold water to drink. Only after that did she wail: “Monsieur Arnaud… Monsieur Arnaud was shot dead! And the murderer…!!”

She shuddered in horror and closed her eyes shut.

“The murderer is still up there… in the room!” She whispered dramatically, her lips grey as if they were completely devoid of blood.

“Marie! Marie!” The young waitress called her name and touched her face gently, full of worry and confusion.

Sherlock straightened and caught her by an elbow with a wild gleam in his eyes. The girl whirled over, affronted by that treatment and I too flinched at this inappropriate gesture, but before we could voice any protest, he pointed his finger at the nearly unconscious woman and barked: “Is this the housekeeper here?”

“Oui.” The girl replied, overpowered by my friend's forceful personality and stammered. “It's Marie… Marie Thibaut.”

“The man she mentioned – Arnaud. Does he live in the flat on the first floor?”

“Oui.”

The bell over the door rang sharply as Sherlock ran out into the night, the darkness outside swallowing him like the inky swamp water.

I hesitated, torn between the need to tend to the fainting woman and the wish to assist Sherlock urgently. Then I remembered that the murderer is still supposed to be around and my wish transformed itself into a pressing concern. I rushed out hastily, slipped into the open gate to my right, passed through the archway with the low ceiling and emerged at the courtyard.

What a terrible sight that was! The house which appeared so cosy and luxurious from outside looked no better than a devastated old ruin after one went past its façade. Joyless and plain wall daubed with rough greyish plaster stretched to the shadows in front of me, the court around me heavily infested with weeds. The wall of the house was entirely windowless at the ground level, but possessed the small, dirty windows leering at me at the level of the first floor. All of the windows were very shabby, with the paint flaking away from them in stripes and with rags hanging behind their glass instead of curtains. A dilapidated gallery fringed the first floor from outside, battered wooden stairs leading to it from the rich tuft of stinging nettle. An ugly bay-window, more like ghastly wooden cage than a lofty construction, hovered right above my head, its side-door presumably serving as the entrance to the flat. All in all, the building resembled the dolled up bride who lifted the snow-white veil only to reveal the ghoul-like face underneath it. 

I climbed the squeaky stairs and swiftly approached the repulsive box of the bay-window. Behind its empty door-leaf, the actual door to the flat was visible, embedded deep into the wall. It was wide open and the flood of light spread over the worm-eaten planks from behind it. No sound was audible and that fact was enough to give the scene a sinister atmosphere.

Disturbed to a high degree, I stepped into the room.

I almost rammed into Sherlock from behind. He stood right behind the threshold, rigid like the pillar of salt into which Lot's wife changed at the gates of Sodom. He held his deerstalker in one hand, revealing his pale face to me and I noticed his weirdly numb stare which was pointed at something placed at the far end of these premises.

Calmed down by the discovery that he seemed to be safe and sound, I followed his gaze absent-mindedly.

And I hissed in shock, enveloped in the strong feeling of unpleasantness and disgust at once. 

Based on reaction of Mrs. Thibaut, I was already prepared for the worst… but the butchery displayed before my eyes still made me cringe. The bullet hit the old man directly into the left eye and flew out through the vertex, mangling his skull in an incredible manner. Disregarding the ghastly character of the injury, the sheer amount of blood this produced was unbelievable. Its sticky red traces lingered literally on every single object located in that quarter of the room. Moreover, one of the people involved - the victim or maybe the perpetrator himself - overturned the coal scuttle during the fatal encounter which gave a positively hellish tint to the whole scene. The dead man – who lay curled on his side near the heating stove – rested there covered in black dust, the dark blocks of coal scattered among his limbs, around his head, in the ocean of blood spilled on the floor… Nobody could produce more horrifying image even if they tried.

“Oh, God!” An involuntary shudder passed through me.

I instantly looked around to make sure that the beastly creature responsible for this savagery does not hide here inside. But there was nothing to see. The room was sternly furnished, almost empty aside from the drawing table, two chairs, the meagre bookcase and the oaken closet. The only striking feature of its space was the statue of Holy Virgin Mary placed in the little alcove opposite us, simple crucifix pinned to the wall next to it and the painting of some bearded religious figure underneath it. It contained very little otherwise. The thought that I previously imagined this room to be a luxurious chamber equipped with a large fireplace seemed so preposterous now.

Encompassing this desert with one glance and finding it safe for the moment, I turned to Sherlock: “Come, we must notify the police about this. We have no authority to be here now.”

He did not speak to me and didn't move an inch, just continued to stare at the crime-scene, stricken and bleary-eyed. 

“Sherlock!” I tugged at his sleeve, irritation rising high in my stomach.

In that instant he grabbed me by the wrist, his grip strong and intense like the grip of the jaw-vice and he tacitly pointed his finger at the door to the adjacent room. The lines of his face sharpened, emphasised by the tension evident in his body.

I blankly watched the said door for a while, uncomprehending. Then I froze.

The door was positioned just a few steps from the heating stove where this cruel tragedy has occurred. It was left slightly ajar and the darkness visible in its gap only revealed to me that no lamp has been lit in the room situated behind it. This and the fact that I heard no sounds coming from its direction was the reason I originally dismissed it as unimportant. 

But now that I looked closer at the area lying behind that door, thinly lit by the lamplight burning in the drawing room, I realised that the outlines of an actual, living human face are discernible in the door-gap. The slight luminescence betrayed the position of the eye gaping at us dispassionately, the greyish spot among the dark shadows seemed to indicate the white hair. In the total silence that ensued in the room after Sherlock grabbed me by the hand I was finally able to hear the almost inaudible droning of someone's breath. 

Cold sweat drenched my nape and I felt my hair bristle in fright. My hand went to my pocket automatically in search of a gun.

“No! Wait…” Sherlock caught my other wrist too, forcing me to stop. He held me in this bizarre clinch for a second to make a point. After that he released me and turning his back on me, started to slowly walk towards the other room.

My heart jumped to my throat at the sight. I half-awaited a bullet to burst through the wood of the door, doing away with Sherlock as it did with the other man, Arnaud. But Sherlock managed to get to the door unhurt. He then placed his palm to the middle of it and cautiously pushed it in, causing it to open wide.

The light flooded the place at once, illuminating the sitting figure which shifted and shut its eyes at the intrusion. 

It was a man around fifty-five, sixty years old, but sleek and fit, looking very active. He possessed a darker skin typical for a Latin race together with milky white hair, which made for an interesting, striking contrast. Similar to Sherlock, he had a thin, oblong face with prominent cheekbones and the thin, nervous, elegant hands. He was clean-shaven and nicely groomed. Pearl-grey, hypnotic eyes glittered under his heavy, half-shut eyelids. His dark suit was cut in a simple style, but it was sewn from a quality material.

Small coffee table was placed to man's right with two objects adorning its surface. One of them was a tea-cup with some liquid residue at the bottom of it. The other was a nasty looking revolver. 

Glimpsing a gun, I burst forward in panic and tried to take it away before it could be used against us.

“No, don't!” Sherlock's voice rang behind me, unusually raw and exasperated. I never heard such tone from him before. It stopped me in my tracks and I turned to him with quizzical expression on my face.

Sherlock stood by the side of unknown man now, his eyes red and shiny. He was obviously very moved and so uncharacteristically disturbed, that I would have held him for another person altogether. He raised his hand and to my shock, he placed it on the cheek of the old man, caressing it gently.

“Julian!” He whispered brokenly.

I observed it as in a trance, rigid and unbelieving.

The white-haired man leaned his cheek into Sherlock's palm and blinked sluggishly, as if he was not entirely aware of his presence. Then he replied in a low, enticing tone which was dripping with some surreal, mesmerising quality: “Guillaume… mmm, you returned… my boy.”

He bowed his head forward after this, rocking along sleepily. His hands hung limply between his knees.

Before I could ask any question, Sherlock grabbed the saucer-pad from the table and sniffed the cup placed on it. 

“Tisane!” He mumbled, frowning in discontent.

He then sprang back into the drawing room restlessly and surveyed the unpleasant scene of the massacre once more, ogling the corpse and the surrounding mess with hungry interest.

And at that very moment the stomping of many feet resounded outside and subsequently, five members of gendarmerie burst into the room.

“Hey! You two! What are you doing?!” Their officer hollered at us and then swore loudly, doing a double-take, as he noticed the bloody carnage taking place behind our backs. His men screamed in outrage, echoing him and surrounded us quickly, prepared to seize and subdue us. 

But sooner than this situation gradated into such a dramatic end, Vernet flew inside and jumped among the gendarmes with flailing hands. 

“No, no, messieurs! These men are innocent! My cousin and his friend just entered this place after the crime was already discovered by Marie! They were just trying to help! The real perpetrator must be still….”

He didn't finish his speech. His eyes bulged out and his voice got stuck somewhere in his throat.

“Mon Dieu!” He gaped at the white-haired sleeper sitting behind our backs. His mouth opened in disbelief: “Professor Authié!”

He deflated like a balloon and his gaze oscillated between both of our faces helplessly.

The gendarmerie officer swore again and eyed our small group suspiciously.

“Would someone tell me what is happening here?!” He demanded angrily. “If these men do not have anything to do with the crime, who shot this poor guy then? Was it him?”

He pointed his finger accusingly at the white-haired man, Authié.

Vernet struggled for air like a fish, red-faced and confused. He shook his head and stammered: “No… no! That's… that's impossible!”

“But there is a gun at the table next to him! And these people were obviously messing with the objects left in this room by the criminal! How do you explain that?”

Vernet didn't respond to that, he was just gnawing at the ends of his bushy moustache mutely.

Still, he was saved from further awkwardness by Sherlock who went past him carrying himself like royalty, his back ramrod-straight and approached the temperamental officer with his self-possession back in place. En-route, he produced a visit-card out of his vest-pocket and as he was handing it to the policeman, he coldly introduced himself: “My name is Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective and I am currently in your country on the invitation of your government. I arrived into Béziers this evening in the company of Inspecteur Principal Justin Ganimard of La Sûreté. You can check these facts with him, he is to be found at the local Commissariat de Police at the moment.”

The officer, quite cowed and bewildered all of sudden, accepted the card meekly and read it with an almost comic kind of reverence. Meanwhile, Sherlock made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the room with it and continued: “Now let me describe the state of this place as we found it upon our arrival after the announcement of the crime.”

He gave a short summary of our previous actions to the gendarme, indicating a coffee table at the end: “We touched nothing, except the middle of this door and the saucer pad. I was careful to put it back on the table into its original position for you. If you allow me to advice you something, I would preserve that cup together with its content for now and let it be analysed by an expert later. The strong herbal smell of the tisane makes it impossible to tell, but I suspect there was some potent drug administered to this drink earlier in the evening.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and nodded in the direction of the stove after that: “I would also like to put your attention to the coals that had fallen all around the deceased. Some of them are certainly not placed in positions into which they should naturally fall at the time of an impact. They are not scattered – the few blocks were probably pushed aside by some instrument and created something like a row right under the stove. Please, note down the fact, it's very important.”

The officer nodded in the bout of obeisance, still, he raised a careful objection right away: “Monsieur Holmes, I would still be forced to take this gentleman, Authié, to the station. He must be questioned on the matter as soon as possible.”

Sherlock pierced him with a stern, steely gaze from the side and replied curtly: “Do what is your duty, captain. You will find me at the house of Mr. Vernet if my presence is deemed necessary.”

He slightly bowed to the gendarmes, placed the deerstalker at his head and beckoning to me and Vernet, he left the room. We hurried after him and soon found ourselves at the street in front of the bistro once more. 

Thousands of questions were pushing against my tongue, impatient to get out. I felt hotness pulsing frantically in my chest – jealousy and the sense of betrayal. My hands itched in desire to grab Sherlock, to press him against the wall and to interrogate him thoroughly about the bizarre spectacle I just witnessed in the victim's flat. But neither the time nor the place was suitable for that. 

During the time we were away, the street filled with nosy busy-bodies and neighbours. I noticed that Rosalie and Marie were among them, grimly observing the house of the tragedy with the others. The ominous police van stood higher up the street. Its black wagon adorned with tiny barred windows waited patiently for the arrival of the fresh prisoner, disturbing atmosphere of something fatal keenly perceptible in its stillness. 

Sherlock mumbled something under his nose, rambling back and forth on the trottoir next to the bistro, his head bowed to his chest in thought, his hands clasped behind his back. No one dared to approach him, people kept their distance seeing how absent-minded and out of it he is. 

He snapped of his mental reverie only after few minutes. He hesitated for a while and came nearer to Marie, tipping his cap to her. 

“Madame Thibaut?” He addressed her deferentially. “You have told me earlier that you were a housekeeper in the house of the deceased. I couldn't help but notice that your employer was a Jesuit. Therefore, may I ask you…”

Rosalie, who obviously lent Marie her company to shield her from any unwanted attentions, gave him an ugly glance and put her hands on both shoulders of the elder woman. She gently pushed her back inside the shop and slipping in right after her, she retorted: “Leave us alone, monsieur! We know nothing about the matter!”

The bell placed high on the wall rang angrily when the door was slammed shut into Sherlock's face. Two pairs of hostile, distrustful eyes pierced Sherlock from behind the glass. The slim female hand let down the blinds after that and cut the bistro from the rest of the world in an uncompromising manner.

The pink-cheeked granny who stood nearby and who carried two live chickens in the basket thrown over her shoulder tut-tutted compassionately. She leaned to Sherlock and informed him in a hushed up voice of a well informed confidant: “Don't bear a grudge against them, sir, they didn't mean it like that. They both adored Monsieur Arnaud immensely. They must still be in shock.”

Sherlock peeked at her from under the visor of the deerstalker inscrutably. Still, he was not bearing the name of the sleuth in vain. He flexibly adjusted himself to a new source of data and asked smoothly and politely: “You knew Monsieur Arnaud then, Madame?”

The old lady nodded slowly: “Oh, he was an absolute angel, sir. A devout Jesuit and a man full of Christian virtue, as you have said. I was his acquaintance from the moment I first came into Béziers thirty years ago, because he served as an aide for the church I used to attend for many years. He was such a great support for the poor of our town while he was still active! Especially children from destitute families and the orphans have much to thank him for, because he frequently organised charities for them and helped them to find some decent work. Not only Rosalie and Marie, but also many others will miss him so…”

Deep sigh rose from her chest. Her voice descended into something resembling a sob and she blinked, overpowered by a sudden bout of nostalgia.

Sherlock hastily handed her his batiste handkerchief. She thanked him plaintively and dabbed the corners of her eyes with it, alarming the chickens by the act.

“Did you see Monsieur Arnaud lately, Madame?” Sherlock asked empathetically.

“Oh, I only met him a few days ago, at this very bistro! I didn't even know he moved here, to Rue de l'Orb, because he inhabited a nice little villa near Les Halles previously. He told me he had to give up his work for the church because of an illness and that he needed some change of the environment… I wanted to pay him a visit and to bring him some wine from our vineyard soon… and now I'm annoyed with myself it never came to that. If I only knew…”

She blinked again and then she blew her nose into Sherlock's handkerchief thoroughly. 

Unexpectedly, the assembled mob hummed in excitement. I turned my head after the source of the noise….

And just as unexpectedly, I felt how Sherlock's hand slid into mine. I don't know how he did it, but he suddenly stood by my side, straightened out into his full height and as taut as a violin string. His face turned into stone once more, but his fingers, intertwined with mine, trembled in nervous anticipation.

The gendarmes emerged from the gate of the house, their white-haired prisoner walking sluggishly in their midst. The police van was already opened and its black wagon with barred windows and wide-open doors looked like the mouth of some hungry beast lurking in the darkness, prepared to swallow its prey hungrily. The prisoner was scanning the amassed mob with murky eyes while being dragged to this movable cell and he managed to find Sherlock just before he was forced to board it. He stopped for a second and exchanged a long glance with him. Even through the distance, the sense of their mutual connection was palpable. Sherlock flinched as if he was hit right into solar plexus.

And then it was over. The metal door closed with a loud whack. The coachman cracked the whip over the two black horses and the carriage diverged slowly to the crowded street, taking up speed, until it disappeared behind the nearest corner.

Sherlock squeezed my hand in a vice grip. Despite his outward façade of absolute stoicism, he couldn't fool me. He was shell-shocked there, under the hard kernel of apathy.

Vernet approached us with the rueful face. He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and started to apologise: “Guillaume, I'm so sorry….”

Sherlock abruptly let go of me, whirled to his cousin and clutched at his coat, long fingers tearing into fabric like claws. He put his face close to the stunned Frenchman and said to him in a low, urgent voice, his eyes blazing savagely: “Marcel, we must remove the books and papers from Professor's house immediately, lest the police find them! Where does he live currently?”

“It's Rue de la Citadelle, not very far from my own house.”

“Fetch us a cab then, we must hurry!”

Vernet gulped heavily, nodded and mutely made a bolt for the nearest cab stand.

I couldn't believe my ears and this time, I let my displeasure be known.

“Sherlock!” I hissed and grabbed Sherlock's forearm, barely stifling the urge to shake him. “What the hell? Don't tell me you want to make us an accessory to this crime!”

He shook my hand off angrily: “Don't talk nonsense, John! That man is innocent, he could never perpetrate this crime, that's impossible!”

„Really?” My eyebrows flew up to my hairline. “And how did you deduce that? Don't you want to enlighten me on that?”

“Because he's…” Sherlock hesitated and bit into his lip, frowning irritably.

“Because what? I'm all ears!”

“Because he's perfect, that's why!” He retorted in a muffled, but very firm voice.

In that moment the wheels of a cab rattled on the cobblestones near us and the spacious hansom came to a halt at the edge of the trottoir, empty, with Vernet sitting next to the cabbie. Sherlock gave me the last meaningful, dark stare and quickly jumped inside, leaving the door open for me.

Blood rushed into my head and caused my cheeks to burn. Heart thumped furiously in my chest and I felt a bit faint from sudden onslaught of red hot jealousy and pain that enveloped my whole body. I blindly clambered into the cabin and shaking in agitation, I sat next to Sherlock, but avoided looking at him, preferring to stare out of the window instead.

Only after the cab moved and we were riding through the streets shrouded in the night twilight, I asked quietly: “So he's your ideal of male perfection, huh?”

I heard him exhale heavily and he replied, sounding very tired: “I never said that he is my ideal, John. I only said that he's Perfect.”

He weirdly emphasised the last word. I bowed my head in disappointment and obsessively rubbed the place where my late moustache grew a few days ago.

“Please, explain it to me more clearly, for I do not understand…”

“Well… maybe “bonhomme” is a better term? He is bonhomme?”

Bonhomme? A Good Man? I felt as if I was drifting farther and farther to the sea, loosing even the slightest connection with the land.

“Uh, maybe he looks like a good person to you, Sherlock, but I doubt…”

“All right,” Sherlock capitulated. “We will try it the other way around. Have you ever heard of Cathars, John?”

“Cathars?” I shrugged. “You mean that queer sect of heretics that plagued Southern Europe during The Middle Ages? Of course I have heard of them.”

“So that's what he is first and foremost, John. A Cathar.”

I was rendered speechless by that announcement. I caught myself facing Sherlock again, unbelieving and bug-eyed, but now it was him staring out of the window. He observed the lights of the town and continued in a wistful, dreamy tone: “Cathars are the folk which, according to their beliefs, carries within itself the shard of the Divine Light. They are the folk which perceives the human body as a garment of flesh only. The Angelic Soul of an individual is trapped within this garment, forgetting its origin in God and it must incarnate into this world time and time again until it is able to return to that original state. Most individuals therefore go through this long circle of reincarnations.” 

“But there are some,” Sherlock's voice lowered “who became linked intimately with God although they were not yet released from the confines of the body.”

He shut his eyes and cited the words he evidently knew by heart: “But they which shall be accounted worthy to obtain that world and the resurrection from the dead neither marry, nor are given in marriage, neither can they die any more: they are equal unto the angels and are the children of God, being the children of the resurrection.” 

Sherlock raised his hand instinctively and pressed it over his heart: “And such people, John, are called boni homines among the Cathars or Perfecti by the Catholic Church. They live the life of extreme austerity. They do not dress lavishly. They do not lie, nor swear in oaths. They willingly endure strenuous work and all different kinds of hardships. They fast frequently. They do not have a procreative sexual contact with any person, so as to not entrap more Angelic Souls into this garment of the body. They do not eat meat, eggs, fat or cheese, because these too were originally obtained through coitus. Moreover, it is forbidden to a Perfect to inflict pain upon any Soul imprisoned in this world, whether it lives in an animal or human form. And for this same reason, Perfect would never take life of any living creature, John. Never.”

Sherlock pierced me with a look as sharp as a knife, the paleness of his irises hardening into steel: “Spilling of blood in such a manner would do away with his purity at once and would condemn him to the hardest of damnations. Spiritually, he would never recover from such an incident. Therefore, he would rather be killed himself than to slay somebody else. And so this man, Authié, being Perfect, couldn't murder the victim. He just couldn't!”

Short, stunned silence ensued.

At last, I coughed and replied dryly: “You know, that is quite a detailed knowledge of this arcane teaching – from the person who refuses to register that the Earth goes round the Sun.”

Sherlock's lips twitched imperceptibly, but he didn't bother to grace my dig with further remark. 

I put my fingers to the sensitive area under my nose and drummed on it, musing loudly: “But weren't Cathars completely wiped out during The Middle Ages?”

“No, there were always small cells upheld by the adherents of the teaching. Among the Perfecti, the Elder Chosen One transferred all his status and power to the Younger Chosen One gradually. And so the movement survived to this very day.”

“And Julian Authié is now the leader of it, here in Béziers?”

“You could say that, yes.”

“But he doesn't preach his cause to the public openly?”

“No.” Sherlock admitted restlessly. “If it leaked to the public that Julian leads Cathar rites in secret, he would lose his position as professor and the scandal would most likely deprive him of both his reputation and his freedom. That's why it's so necessary to remove every damning document out of his house before the police comes snooping and turns it upside down.”

“Still, your cousin, Vernet, knows about it, doesn't he?”

“Marcel is a sympathiser, a credente. He acts coquettish towards Cathar beliefs, but does not take it very seriously, to be honest. Yet he is safe. He knows Julian from a very young age and he likes and respects him a lot.”

And you? I felt this question tickling me at the tip of my tongue. Where do you stand in relation to this man? Why were you so shaken at the sight of him? What post does he occupy in your heart, in your mind?

But I didn't dare to explicitly ask this yet. So I just scratched myself behind the ear as if I was hiding embarrassment and I squinted to the side, thinking aloud: “There is one thing in the whole situation that does not make sense to me at all, Sherlock. If Authié spread Catharism around, why the deuce would he try to visit a Jesuit all of a sudden? They could have nothing in common, for sure. Also, wouldn't it be risky for him to keep such relations?

So why was he in Arnauds flat, I wonder?”

“I don't know.” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, his eyebrows creased up in thought. “Based on what Marcel told us, the Professor intended to meet him at the bistro later this evening. I doubt he bothered to explain his presence at Arnaud's place to him, though. I guess we must wait until we reach Rue de la Citadelle, John. Julian's filius minor will maybe tell us more.”

And with that, we ceased speaking up to the moment when we reached our destination.

We ordered the cabbie to wait and hurried through the badly-lit archway to the small court lined with entrances to the individual flats on all sides.

Vernet climbed three steep steps leading to a battered oak and knocked on it in vehement taps. 

“Didier!” He called out. “Didier, open up, I must speak with you!”

Dim light of a lamp flickered in the porthole above the door after some time and the key rattled in the lock. The oak opened hesitantly and a young man appeared on the threshold.

As I glimpsed him, a sharp jolt in my chest made me gasp audibly. It could well have been a young Sherlock who loitered on the stairs above us. The young man had the rich dark curly hair and a pale complexion, piercing green eyes and a dignified presence. He was tall and lithe and very, very pretty. 

If I had my suspicion about Authié's tastes before, it now increased tenfold and it soon solidified into horrifying certainty that sunk into my stomach like a stone.

Being informed about Authié's arrest, this young aide, Didier, turned ashen in the face and rocked back and fort as if overcoming an urge to faint. Vernet caught him under the armpit and leaned close to him, whispering some soothing words to him. He then escorted him inside. 

And as they disappeared in the dark interior of the house, I noticed a shrivelled old bloke standing at the door – probably one of those credentes Sherlock was speaking about in the cab. That's when I obtained the final proof. 

Because the old guy focused his short-sighted eyes on Sherlock carefully and hesitating for a while, he finally bowed to him and started to declaim in a raspy voice: “En aisso sabem quar en lui estam et el e nos quar del seu Esperit dec a nos. Quar esz fil de Deu, Deus trames l'esperit del seu Fil el vostre cor.”

Sherlock just shook his head quietly, his white profile pronounced in the darkness.

“Don't be mistaken, my friend. I may be on the side of the angels, but I am not one of them.”

It was a cleverly evasive answer, but it came too late. The deed was done. One glance at that young chap, Didier and the words of that old guy were enough to tell me what I needed to know, what I already surmised. And the truth appeared in front of me in its naked wretchedness, as clear as a day.

When Vernet and Didier re-emerged from inside, carrying two big bags with them, I barely recognised them through the water that got stuck in my eyes. I retreated further into shadows and breathed heavily, trying to calm myself. Thankfully, I managed to somehow mask my disconcertedness in time to see Didier locking the door and handling the keys to the old guy who shuffled deeper into the court with them, leaving us to our own devices. I was therefore able to follow the others in quite a peaceful manner while we returned to the cab. 

I kept my tongue sullenly and Sherlock, walking by my side, was silent too, his gaze aimed ahead of us unflinchingly, his steps noiseless, his face pallid, withdrawn and mysterious in the all-encompassing gloom. He remained like that even as we stepped into the cab. He never once looked at me during our ride.

Our company reached Vernet's two-storey house placed at Les Allées Paul-Riquet, beautiful tree-lined promenade in the middle of the town.

It was too late for any festivities and we were all in the dumps a bit, so Vernet didn't even try to propose any night entertainment. He accommodated Didier in the saloon and then he led us upstairs, to the two-bed guest room. Discreet good-night, softly closed door, the subtle sound of the steps descending downwards – and soon, we were left alone.

Sherlock sighed softly when that happened and started to disrobe. He stripped down to the plain shirt and trousers and hung his coat, cap, jacket and vest on the rack. He remained standing near the wall after that, with his back turned to me.

I shook off my own coat, sat down on the edge of the bed I reserved for myself and I raised my head defiantly, my jaw all stiff and set. 

“So…” I cleared my throat, “Julian Authié and you were lovers, if I understand correctly?”

His wavy black hair bobbed up and down as he nodded, once.

“Yes.” He whispered.

I was already firm in my knowledge of the fact. Nevertheless, it was a blow to hear it confirmed from his own mouth. I struggled to continue, my shaking fingers clawing my thighs spasmodically: “How old were you when you first started sleeping together?”

“Seventeen. Julian was my tutor then.” Sherlock touched the rim of his Ulster coat and started to crumple it between his fingers. “He was intelligent, very charming, very… attentive. When we were alone, he was never trying to hide his adoration of me. He called me beautiful, ephebic… so it naturally happened one day. In my grandmother's cabinet. And then it continued for some time.”

“For SOME time? How long a time do you have in mind?”

He exhaled tiredly: “Three years and a few months…”

The casual admission ejected me from my seat as a bullet: “You mean to tell me you allowed this disgusting pervert to defile you for years? That's… preposterous!”

He turned to me sharply, his gaze meeting mine for the first time since our visit in Authié's flat: “Don't call him a pervert! What he did was not proper, I admit, but he didn't abuse me. I had my say in the matter and I allowed it to proceed. Julian taught me many things about my body and I learnt much about myself while we were together. I later split up with him, but I don't think the experience harmed me in any way.”

“Oh, what a good soul he was, really!” I laughed hysterically. “The hypocritical swine! Purity, chastity, abstaining from sex… he certainly adhered to his own principles, didn't he?”

“Cathar bonhommes only abstain from procreative sex. Our coitus could not be procreative, therefore it did not break the rules of conduct which Julian had to follow as one of them. Our coupling was not something filthy. It was more like joining of souls, in fact.”

I had a sudden urge to tear my hair out: “Sherlock! What the man did was illegal!”

Sherlock lost his patience with me and began to walk to and fro in the middle of the room: “I can't believe you are talking about legality all of a sudden, John! Did you forget that the thing we do together is hardly legal in our home-country either?”

This lowbrow argument took my breath away.

“Do not ever,” I hissed after a sinister pause, “do not ever compare our relationship to the one you shared with this charlatan! I made love to an adult who was fully conscious of the consequences of the act. He took advantage of an inexperienced young boy!”

“No, he didn't!” Sherlock protested heatedly. “I never felt misused or exploited by him! I was active in that relationship and I sought Julian's attention eagerly. It was a flattering thought that he craves me so much. I felt wanted… I felt like a chosen one.”

Chosen one! The moment he used that term, the sparkle of enlightenment was kindled in my mind and it threw light at the last piece of the puzzle for me. I couldn't believe how dense I previously was.

It all added up. Sherlock's pale complexion and his ascetic lifestyle. His long fasts interlaced with periods of hard work. His constant praise of the spirit and his equally strong contempt for the “transport”. His choice of a partner with which he could never have procreative sex.

How could I be so blind?

“You!” I gasped. “You are one of them, aren't you? That old guy at Rue de la Citadelle identified you correctly! You are of their elite! You are Perfect!”

He rubbed his face with his hands in frustration: “I was one of them while I lived here, yes. But that thing is in the past now. I am no longer a pure one. I chose my own path.”

I clenched my hand into fist and I pinned it against the side of the table.

“I can't believe it!” I gnashed my teeth. “I just can't!”

Sherlock stared at me with the annoyingly clear eyes, probably at a loss for words. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders: “Is it such a big deal for you that I was a Cathar, John? Why does that bother you so much? You know that as the members of the Established Church of England we would be considered heretics here anyway.”

“You know full well this is not the issue!” I retorted, barely restraining myself from screaming. “Your religious experiments do not interest me the least! But I can't stand the thought you played bottom to that creep out there!”

That did it. I angered him too.

“Yes, I have a past. A past I didn't inform you about.” He said in a clipped tone. “But I can't see how I'm so different from you – John “Three Continents” Watson!”

I flared out: “Don't bring my relationships with women into it! I did not seek them out since we ended together!”

“I didn't seek anyone since I first met you, John!” He burst out angrily. “I never desired another after I came to know you as you are well aware! You never witnessed me to behave as a philanderer, so you could be very sure about my fidelity! And yet you married that woman and left me alone, resigning me to cocaine!”

The reproach was worse than a shooting wound to me. I blanched, staggered and I had to sit down at the edge of the bed again, lest my weakened knees would give way on me.

But Sherlock shrunk back too, astonished about his own outburst. He raised both hands in a placatory gesture and apologised quietly: “No, I didn't mean it like that. Please, forget all I just said, John.” 

He sat at the edge of the opposite bed, looking utterly devastated and then he lay down unexpectedly, as if all of his strength was sucked out of him at once. He reclined among the duvets motionlessly, faintly trembling with nervous exertion. 

In an instant, I felt deflated and cowed like a whipped cur with its tail held low between its hind legs. I slunk through the room and crawled into Sherlock's bed, curling into a ball at his side. He sighed inaudibly and his tremors stopped after a few minutes.

Sensing that he has calmed down a bit, I clasped my arms around his waist and I held him tightly, burying my face into his cotton-clad chest.

“I'm sorry.” I whispered ruefully. “I didn't mean to make such a scene. In a way I'm glad that you are so protective of your former lover. I wouldn't like it one bit if you abandoned him to his fate. It's just… I felt so insecure when I realised you were once intimate with him. Like I should lose you to him.”

He put his hand at the crown of my head, his fingers ruffling up my hair gently. I shut my eyes and leaned more comfortably against him.

“I was always attracted to you, from the moment of our first encounter at St. Bart's, Sherlock.” I confessed. “But I believed you to be unobtainable, uninterested in such things. I also genuinely loved Mary, my feelings for her weren't any shallower than those I had for you. I am aware it's unfair of me to berate you about Julian when I am like that. When I was able to give my heart to two people simultaneously. Still, it's how I am.”

I gulped around the big dumpling that has risen into my throat: “That's the real reason why I'm so afraid, I guess. You already knew some form of perfection, I guess. And I am an utterly imperfect man. I could never be an equivalent of that to you.”

He caressed my cheek, his touch delicate as the flutter of the butterfly-wings. His fiery lips pressed against my temple next, marking me with a kiss.

“I would not give up your imperfection for the world.” He told me. “You should not worry about that. I assure you I was not involved with Julian because of his “perfection” either. At that time, I was simply happy to find somebody who shared my peculiar tastes. I was always aware I am not like others and I believed myself to be abnormal. Then I met a boy, Victor… but that connection never went past friendship. 

Julian was a revelation for me. He was charismatic, erudite and mysterious, he belonged to the leading circle of a fascinating movement and he was an invert like me… I was quite dazzled.

But he ultimately wasn't what I was searching for. I have found that much, much later.”

I slowly unbuttoned his shirt and prostrated myself on his naked chest, kissing him with abandon. He reciprocated passionately. Emboldened by this response, I quickly stripped him, leaving the rest of his clothes on the floor and being dressed myself, I claimed him greedily, embracing his lean, firm thighs and torso in turns.

Then, while he was slowly recovering, I shed off my own garments and joined him on the bed. I cuddled with him for a while and claimed him again after that. 

Following my bold plunder of him, I never bothered to transfer into my own bed. I just threw my arms around him, holding him close and immersed myself into a deep, sated sleep. However, in the wee hours of morning I was roused unexpectedly and coaxing Sherlock out of his slumber too with playful bites to his jaw, I prepared and claimed him once more. I could never have enough.

Sherlock smiled sardonically when we were finished and he remarked: “If I knew what effect the revelation of my past would have on you, I would have told you about Julian much sooner.”

“Oh, shut up, you.” I growled with a smirk and burrowed under the duvets lazily.

A silent scratching sound echoed from the direction of the door at that second. We both stiffened in shock – but it was a false alarm. No one approached our room, the occupants of the house were still asleep. The scratches clearly resounded from behind the wall.

“Rodents, most likely.” I commented and tapped on the plaster lightly, confirming that the resulting sound rang hollow under my hand. “The building is old, it must be full of long forgotten vents and chimneys, I gather.”

I turned to Sherlock and was taken aback by his appearance momentarily.

He sat by the headboard, clutching at his waist as if he had severe abominable cramps. Every drop of blood disappeared from his face, leaving it as white as a bed-sheet and his eyes had a glassy expression in them. His lips moved as in a trance, repeating two words over and over. 

“Old chimney. Old chimney!”

He sprang like a lightning flash from his seat straight away and he hollered at me: “John, get dressed, quickly! It's the old chimney, of course! Oh, what an idiot I was! Come on, we must run! Come, lest it'll be too late!”

My ear-drums nearly burst from the intensity of his scream. I wonder to this very day that the rest of the house was not immediately roused by it, thinking the roof is on fire. Shaken by the whirlwind of activity that suddenly took place in front of me, I dressed in haste, throwing clothes sloppily on my body, while Sherlock raced around like a flame, restless, wild, almost frantic with impatient energy.

Thankfully, as we emerged to an almost empty street, we were able to catch an errant cab returning from its assignment immediately. Sherlock would probably sprout wings and fly at our destination, if we didn't.

When we were seated safely inside, our hansom cab racing in the direction of Rue de l'Orb like crazy, I finally managed to ask Sherlock: “You are up to something. Did you get to the crux of the matter at last?”

“Yes, John.” He replied, his whole countenance ablaze with triumph. “The case is now solved, I believe.”

“Is it really? But I'm none the wiser where it's concerned, I must confess. Can you tell me more about it?”

“Just think about it, John!” Sherlock gesticulated in excitement. “Just think what we saw at the site of a tragedy! The house which was neat from outside, but nothing more than a derelict ruin from inside. The poisoned tea. The room where the shooting took place, the dead man at one side of the door, the drugged up man at the opposite side, the door between them completely unscathed. The blocks of coal which should scatter around the victim in a completely random manner but which were arranged into something of a row. Does it ring a bell with you, John?”

“It is all very interesting, but I would be lying if told you I surmised the identity of the murderer from that.”

“That's because no murderer exists, John. The man did it himself. It was a suicide!”

I opened my mouth in astonishment.

“Suicide? But… it can't be, for sure! How would he… why?”

“Because he was ill, John.” Sherlock ascertained grimly and frowned. “Very ill, I think. Probably on the verge of dying. But he didn't want to go like that, to fade away like an insignificant ghostly shadow. He was a Christ's warrior all his life, a devout, ardent Jesuit and he wished to decorate his demise with a deed that would give significance and glamour to all of his previous existence.

And what better deed could a spiritual person like him crave for than a destruction of the heretics, the wiping out of the enemy of his Church?

I don't know how he got wind about Julian, but it's no doubt he hated him with a passion and he intended to uproot him and the Cathar heresy from the soil of Béziers once and for all.

And so he gave up his villa in the centre of the town and moved to the poor house in a significantly less glorious district where he was not so well known. That way he could impersonate another person, a hesitating sympathiser of the Cathar movement seeking the help and the guidance of the bonhommes.

In my opinion he lured Julian there under such or a similar pretext. Then, as they were discussing things inside, he handed Julian the drugged up tea and patiently observed how it slowly transformed his Cathar adversary into a catatonic, barely conscious dummy.

He placed a revolver on the table next to Julian, to incriminate him with a crime. I'm sure he shot one round from that gun in the fields at the outskirts the town previously, to create an illusion that it was this very gun which was used for his murder.

But something had to happen after that and he was disturbed, because he hid Julian's prone figure behind the half-closed door and he forgot to open it wide again, not realising how dumb it would look if he was found shot in such circumstances. I noticed it right away. The corpse could not be dead for long at the time we have discovered it. But if Julian was the one who supposedly killed the man, he was required to be sober just a short time ago and to docilely close the door on himself after he mortally injured his host. Yet he was drugged senseless, only just emerging from the high. It stuck me as very unusual and it was the first clue that led me to the truth eventually.

I presume that as soon as he got rid of Julian and secured that the Cathar would be found sitting in an incriminating position, Arnaud took a second gun from its hiding place, walked to the heating stove and turning the revolver against himself, he looked into the barrel and cold-bloodedly pulled the trigger. The glorious knight died a beautiful death, clearing the land of the pest that was plaguing it for so long.

However, as he was falling down, he overturned the coal scuttle and the resulting mess that ensued from the act constituted another clue against him, pointing me at the right direction in due time.”

Listening with the keen interest, I nodded in affirmative at that statement.

“Fascinating. I admit it could happen that way… but in that case, where is the true murder weapon? We didn't see it when we examined the corpse. Did it fell into some obscure place that escaped our attention?”

“It didn't. It was disposed of more devilishly than that.”

My curiosity reached its peak with that bold claim. Yet at that moment our cab stopped abruptly and I glimpsed the familiar façade of the bistro out of its window. The young man dressed in the leather apron worked in front of the shop, unloading the crates full of meat from his cart parked by the house-gate.

Sherlock practically jumped at me, driving me back into a corner as he leaned out of the window at my side and called at the youngster: “Hey, garçon! Tell me, is Rosalie in?”

The boy raised his head in surprise and removed his cap, answering politely: “No, sir. Rosalie went out for a short walk to the river a few minutes ago. Told me she is not feeling well.”

“Damned!” Using this uncharacteristically harsh word Sherlock plopped at the seat next to me and shouted at a cabbie: “Take us to the Pont Vieux! Quickly!”

The cabbie gave us a responding cry and prodded the horses into a swift ride, turning around and taking the corner into a busy nearby street leading to the old bridge across the river Orb. 

I flinched at the mention of Rosalie's name. The outrageous idea flashed through my mind – but I couldn't quite believe it.

“The girl… it was the girl all along?”

“Yes, she was the one who took away the weapon. Some old, unused chimney must be located behind the heating stove in Arnaud's drawing room, with a hole cut into it at the level of the floor, entirely masked by the body of the stove standing in front of it. Arnaud probably fastened a cord to a revolver and as he hid the revolver under the stove, he pushed the end of the cord into the hole in the chimney, so that it reached the ground level. I bet the chimney still has its wicket there, so the cord was practically invisible to the prying eyes of the uninitiated. 

At the hour they previously both agreed on Rosalie came to the chimney, opened the wicket and listened closely until she heard the sound of the shot reverberating above. Her sole task was to pull the cord after that and to drag the revolver into the hole, to let it fall down, probably into some container littered with straw to cushion it upon impact. Taking care of the weapon that way, all she had to do now was to close the wicket once more and to wait for a suitable moment to dispose of the gun entirely.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “But one thing the conspirators didn't count with was the coal that scattered all around Arnaud at the time of his death. When the weapon was being dragged through it, it pushed some of the blocks aside and it created something like a row of them which was unnatural in that setting. It was this fact that ultimately disclosed the manner in which this crime was committed to me.” 

He leaned against his seat and steepled his fingers under his chin, musing loudly: “You know, I think we actually caught Rosalie red-handed when we entered the bistro last night. I remember how late she reacted to the bell, how breathless she looked when she appeared at last and how obsessively she tried to wipe out the traces of soot from her hands. She also obviously knew Julian by name. When I mentioned him during our conversation, she got frightened for a few seconds and almost dropped the tray full of food into your lap. If I was not preoccupied with my own thoughts at that moment, I would have noticed it much sooner.”

Sherlock shook his head ruefully and glanced out of the window with grim expression on his face.

We managed to catch up with Rosalie when she was already in the middle of the bridge. She was standing motionlessly next to the solid stone edging of Pont Vieux and observed the fiery red glow of the approaching dawn at the horizon, wan mist of October morning enveloping her like a transparent veil. When we stepped out of the cab some distance from her and went to her on foot, she turned in our direction and closely observed us, but she didn't try to flee or to do some other inconsiderate thing. A simple wicker basket lay at her feet, covered with the piece of white cloth.

Seeing the basket, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He bent down and took it into his hand. Rosalie just mutely looked at him, but she didn't make any effort to prevent him from touching it. The detective lifted up the cloth, checked the contents of the basket carefully and after that he showed me what was inside. The revolver, very dirty and bound with the cord from all sides, rested upon the pile of straw at the bottom of it.

Sherlock left the basket in my keeping and viewed Rosalie with amazement, a sense of wonder reflected in his pale, slanted eyes.

“So you didn't dispose of the gun after all.” He remarked, very much surprised.

Rosalie pressed her lips together and turned away from him, putting her hands on top of the stone edging of the bridge. She fastened her stare on the surface of the calmly floating water and replied in a defiant, resolute manner: “Oui, monsieur. I was always very loyal to Père Arnaud. Always. But I can't send that gentleman to the guillotine knowing he is innocent. Even if he is the envoy of Satan as Père Arnaud assured me.”

Sherlock stood still for a little while.

“You are a very good person, Rosalie.” He said to her at last. “But now you will have to follow us to the police so that we can inform them about the matter, you are aware of that?”

Instead of a reply, she reached into the pocket of her dark green overcoat and pulled a piece of paper out of it, handing it to Sherlock.

“Perhaps this will help you, monsieur.”

The letter was battered and badly creased but still nicely readable. It was written in the heavy masculine hand and it depicted the plan of Arnaud's suicide to the minute detail, leaving no doubt about the true course of events in our minds. It figures that Arnaud had still a modicum of conscience in him – he gave Rosalie the letter in case she would be caught with the revolver in her hands to protect her from the possible accusation of murder. Thankfully, he never mentioned the fact that Authié is a Cathar in it. In his dementia he only referred to Authié as “the hell spawn” and so the letter could be later used to acquit Authié of the crime.

And so later that day, we found ourselves in the vicinity of Cathédrale Saint-Nazaire, at the gates of the town prison, accompanied by both Vernet and Didier.

While we were waiting patiently, loitering about the small square bestrewn with sand which was adjacent to the prison-walls, a troop of gendarmes marched to the area from the town, escorting the familiar looking prisoner with them.

His elegant Paris evening suit was in rags now and his face was smeared with muck, but his top-hat escaped the ruin somehow and was still in quite a serviceable shape. When he glimpsed us, he tipped the hat to us and bared his teeth in a cheeky smile, addressing us as if we were meeting in front of an elegant restaurant not in front of a gaol. 

“Hello, Mister Holmes, hello, Doctor Wilson. You came to welcome me into my new home? How very nice of you! Don't you want to join me, by the way? There's a plenty of space inside.”

“Thank you, maybe later,” replied Sherlock phlegmatically, not the least disturbed by the jab. I only looked at the thief in contempt, enraged by the deliberate mispronunciation of my name.

Fortunately, the gendarmes didn't allow the man to continue with the foolishness. They seized him by the arms and as the prison gates opened, they pushed him inside roughly, entering the building at his heels. And as they all went in, the white-haired, sternly dressed lithe man was released from inside and stepped out to the square, walking leisurely from the closing metal gate. He halted opposite us and shielded his eyes against the sudden sunlight, staring at Sherlock for a long while.

He smiled warmly then. He came quite near to Sherlock and shortly squeezed his forearm, his fingers long, delicate and frail.

“Merci, Guillaume.” He said softly. His large grey eyes flickered to me after that and crinkled at the corners in amusement: “And congratulations.”

He bowed his head to both of us in greeting and passed us slowly, heading right to Didier and raising both of his hands to him. The young man was at his side in a flash and they embraced amiably. As they separated, they started to walk towards the town almost immediately, never looking back at the huge building which held one of them prisoner a while ago. Vernet intercepted them on their way and engaged them in a boisterous conversation, his ringing laughter reverberating through the place like thunder.

And suddenly I saw these men as they probably really were, stripped of their pretences and their masks, free from all that religious fiddle-faddle – and all I beheld were two lovers trying to excuse their dalliance by sticking it behind the shield of a bizarre cult, which lent a semblance of respectability to their connection.

I glanced at Sherlock pensively.

“May I ask you one last personal question, Sherlock? I will stop bothering you with them after that, I promise.”

Sherlock turned to me, carrying a wary expression in the lines of his face.

“Why did you split with Julian at the end, I wonder?”

He was a bit nonplussed by my inquisitive request, I could sense that. But he just brushed his lips with his index finger and answered truthfully: “It was during one day in the middle of the summer. We strolled with Julian at the opposite bank of Orb. Some peasants tended to their vineyards there, next to the road and the pair of local women passed us by, returning from the market at Les Halles. It was sultry hot, the earth being soft and muddy after the rather violent storm. 

We seated ourselves to the grass that covered the bank as the pleasant felt carpet and discussed some metaphysical philosophies, never noticing that the giant black poplar growing nearby was uprooted by the wind and rain the previous evening. And so it toppled over and fell on us unexpectedly, its long branches and twigs hitting me so that I was knocked down in an instant. Julian escaped from the incident unscathed somehow.

Nothing much happened to me, I was just shaken and frightened. Still, there was a lot of blood because my body was full of bleeding scrapes and I also couldn't move, being stranded under the heavy load of leafy branches.

That's what made me decide that I should leave him. Because the vineyard workers, the women of the market – they all gathered there, pulling me from under the tree quickly and they tended to my wounds, transporting me to my grandmother's house at last. The simple, uneducated people helped me the best they could – and Julian never touched me. He was Perfect, after all. My blood would contaminate his religious purity.”

Sherlock smiled wistfully. “Striving for purity is a nice thing, but having too much of it – it is definitely not healthy.”

He exchanged the glance with me, his eyes bright and his face serene once again: “Therefore I decided to only surround myself with simple, imperfect, but reliable things. These never betrayed me in my life. And I hope they never would.”

I slipped my hand into his covertly and I held it tight. We couldn't kiss there, not in public, but everything we needed to tell each other was expressed in that little, inconspicuous gesture. And so we remained standing on the square side by side and we silently contemplated the picturesque plain of the Orb that stretched into the distance deep beneath us. The pale sunlight of the late October bore on us from high and caressed our shoulders like a lover.

**Author's Note:**

> The encounters between Sherlock Holmes (whose name was changed to Herlock Sholmes) and Arsène Lupin are mentioned in the books of the French writer Maurice Leblanc, namely "Arsène Lupin, Gentleman Burglar", "Arsène Lupin vs. Herlock Sholmes" and "The Hollow Needle". Arsène and his Nemesis, Inspector Ganimard, appear in my story as a result of that. Still, because my story is narrated by John Watson, the circumstances of Arsène´s chase and arrest differ from those described by Maurice Leblanc. In this story, Sherlock and John are the heroes, while Arsène Lupin is just a pest to be overcome. :)
> 
> Catharism which is only known to us via the writings of its enemies remains a mysterious teaching to this very day. Not much is known about it and so hopefully it came to no harm when I altered some details of it for the sake of this story. 
> 
> The story is a loose continuation of "The Adventure of the Mechanical Turk".


End file.
